Terry

Nov 93

I know you.
You are me, inside me, of me.
You eat my pain in its cancerous
rage, pity, self-condemnation 
to spit out pearls of hope.
I touch you;
with words of indifferent abuse,
I touch your expressions
to see if they connect,
as mine cannot.
I am wise, so anciently wise,
yet the child, so young,
inside dies by degrees.
Bite my tongue to stop the tears
that cannot be ceased
when touching this old, old, pain.
I cringe, I flinch, as I touch these raw emotions
that bleed fresh ink upon pristine pages
again and again
yet will not congeal and heal.
Selfishly, I ramble and rant and rave,
wishing I could touch your pain
that must be there
for you to be able to be me, with me.



© 1997, 1998 Tara Tambollio

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